The Tie that Binds
by Spikesgirl58
Summary: Why does Illya wear those thin black ties?  Napoleon ponders the question.  Warning:  slash, so adults only.


If there's anything I love more than sex, which I will admit is a considerable amount, it's watching my partner undress. I don't know if it's just his nature or his military training, but his actions have these crisp little edges to his movement. The way he hangs a pair of pants… when he hangs a pair of pants. We are still working on some of the finer aspects to proper clothes handling. You'd think a man who can dismantle a bomb, crack a safe, touch type, for Christ's sake, could figure out how a hanger works. Nope, it's still a mystery to him in many ways, unless of course he does it to drive me insane. That's also a possibility.

"Napoleon, is there something wrong?" He's standing there in his shorts and his shirt, with the tail hanging down about mid thigh and his cuffs undone. He's working the knot out of his tie, a frown creasing his forehead.

"Nope, just admiring the view." And it's no lie, I was. "Have you any idea how sexy you are?"

"Oh, yes, it's something that I ponder at great lengths. When I get up in the morning, I always wonder which will be my sexiest side of the day."

"Bending over, definitely." I was rewarded by a snort and his tie. It's one of his usual black ties – he buys them in bulk, I swear. It's worn and a little frayed around the edges. "How come you never wear any of the ties I buy you?"

"I like to save them for special occasions."

"Meaning?"

"For a time when they won't be as likely to be destroyed as other times. Wardrobes seem to have ridiculously short life spans in our line of work, especially ties."

That took me by surprise. To my reckoning, I'd never lost a tie in the name of life, liberty and the pursuit of THRUSH. Pants, socks, more shoes than I want to think about, shirts, coats, jackets… but never ties.

"You must lead a more rigorous lifestyle than I do." His shirt was off and it was getting harder to think with the head on my shoulders. My thoughts were wandering due south… at a surprising and frightening speed. I'd never had anyone effect me the way Illya did.

Before Illya and I went on to become lovers, I'd never realized how much I'd held back. I'm not talking physically because that goes without saying. When you train as regularly and hard as we do, you hold back because the results would be disastrous for your bed partner. Unless your bed partner is also your training partner and then it all sort of evens out.

No, I meant emotionally held back. I adore romancing women and I'm very good at it, if you are to believe all the gossip that wanders through the halls and locker rooms. I always make sure the lady has a good time and achieves at least one, if not more, climaxes. But after awhile I was going through the motions without really becoming involved in the end results. I knew that afterwards I would roll over, get out of bed, dress, and be just a pleasant memory by the next day.

All that changed the first night I went to bed with Illya. I knew Illya had sex; it was practically a prerequisite for UNCLE that you would be willing to lay down body and soul for the organization. He'd seduced, he'd been seduced, but he never really dated much outside of work.

For Illya to go to bed with someone, someone not part of an assignment, there had to be more. I didn't know this until we were in the clinch. It was mid thrust and then it was as if a switch went on and we realized what we were really doing. Not just having sex, but we were connecting. I knew then and there that was it. All the women, all the dating, all the screwing, it was just crap. It was all just crap. I looked into Illya's eyes, saw a reflection of the smile that I knew was in mine and knew he'd made the same decision.

It seems like years ago, and it seems like minutes we were lying each other's arms, sated and feeling truly loved for the first time. We talked until the sun came up and then made love again until we literally couldn't keep our eyes open a moment more.

Illya stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. Instinctively I pulled my robe closer around me. With him gone, the room seemed a little cooler. This was a little bit of treasure that we didn't always get to collect. To be back from a mission, with both of us in good shape, nary a scratch between us was rare. The bad guys were in custody or dead - I didn't care much at this point.

I stretched, flexing my toes, and looked around for the bottle we'd brought up from the restaurant. There was enough left in it for a couple of glasses. I reluctantly got off the bed, collected the water glasses from a nearby dresser and poured out an equal amount into both of them.

Illya came out of the bathroom and I offered one to him. Instead he sidestepped it and into the hollow between my arms. Without even giving me a chance to think, he undid the belt to my robe and opened it. Any gasping that I might have made from the cool air was waylaid by his body.

Years of hard training and an even harder lifestyle took its toll on both our bodies. No fat on his, not much on mine, it was muscle against muscle, steel against flint, striking sparks each time we came together.

"My hands are a little full," I complained and then gasped as a cool hand encompassed my dick. A moment later, I felt the unmistakably erotic sensation of his dick and mine being stroked together. Word of advice, always go for a partner with big hands – so rewarding in so many ways.

"So are mine."

At that point all I could do was hold on and try to keep from spilling the very red wine on the very unred carpet while Illya worked us both into a state of frenzy. He used his free arm to keep me close, his fingers digging into one cheek of my ass and leaving, no doubt, noteworthy bruises. The other hand moved faster and faster until there was really nowhere to go but over that cliff into sweet oblivion.

Illya tipped his head back, eyes closed in profound concentration and I took the advantage to lean forward and clamp my mouth down on a taunt neck muscle and bite hard – not hard enough to break the skin, but enough so that he knew I meant business.

With a cry and a shudder, I could feel his dick pulse and that was enough for me. How the two of us stayed on our feet was a mystery; just one of many, I suppose. Yet we did and I never spilled a drop of wine.

I protested as Illya wiped his semen covered hand off on my robe – I'd just gotten it cleaned from a similar episode – and he appropriated a glass from me and walked to the bed. He took a rather large swallow, gave me a 'if you dare' grin and then things got a little crazy.

Still I kept thinking about what I would later refer to as the tie incident.

The next time, I was sitting on a rock with the tide coming in. The water was steadily rising and I was wet from the spray and a stray wave. Hands and feet tied, I had the option of staying where I was and drowning or tipping myself off the rock, possibly knocking myself unconscious on a myriad of other bits of rock and drowning that way.

Then, quite without warning, something large and dark moved in the water. The space was too confined for it to be a shark, I hoped, then it stopped and surfaced. Not a shark, a two-man sub.

"Going my way, sailor?" Illya called out as he popped up from the hatch. His shirt was in tatters and his pants looked as if they were holding on by sheer determination. Then he was in the water and swimming to me with strong even strokes and a few minutes later, I was untied and making my way down into the claustrophobic innards of the sub.

The instrument panel was in Russian and I didn't bother to ask where Illya had obtained this little beauty. I was just happy to be off that rock and back into the fight.

Illya wiped his face with his hand and began to power up the sub. That's when I noticed it. "Illya's where's your tie?"

"Used it and my socks to truss up the guard watching this time." Illya was more focused on the instrument panels than anything else.

"What can I do to help?"

"Ever back up one of these things?" And we were off.

The next time we were hightailing down a corridor, THRUSH bullets taking large chunks out of the walls around us. Just as we went round a corner, I felt the all-too familiar bite of hot metal going by and let out an involuntary yell. That time, his tie ended up as a makeshift bandage to keep my blood from letting THRUSH know our escape route. It ended better for me than him when, after a daring and successful escape, he was cold cocked by a huge pinecone and ended up with a moderate concussion and a week of mandatory bed rest. Not to be petty, but I had a great time writing that report up and I did my best to help the time go by.

The next time, his tie fell victim to additional fuel for a fire that would trigger the sprinklers and ruin a THRUSH summit meeting. The time after that, it plugged a hole that kept sand from gushing in and smothering us. I was slowly beginning to see what he meant. Illya went through ties the way a guy goes through ones at a strip joint. I started keeping a diary and logging just how many neckties Illya went through in a month and that never made it onto a voucher.

I tucked the thin notebook away in a desk drawer just as Illya entered the office. He looked beat and I know I was. We'd just gotten in from back-to-back missions and I'd hit that uncomfortable plateau of being too tired to sleep. Adrenaline, caffeine, and sheer nerves all worked against me.

"Reports done?" Illya plopped down into the wooden chair beside my desk and propped his chin up on his hand.

"Just need to sign off on them." I pushed the stack of them towards him and he started to scratch his signature. "What do you want to do next? Sleep or eat?" I winced as I sat back. Hiding under a very small table for a very long time has a way of becoming quite unpleasant, even when one does go undetected.

"I think we need something different." Illya stood, favoring one side. He'd pulled a muscle trying to haul our innocent out of a pit. She wasn't as thin as she'd let on.

"What?"

"A _banya_."

"A tree? How is a tree going to help me?" Of course, I knew what he meant, but I wanted an excuse to see him smile, so I played dense.

He started to chuckle and shook his head. Just the thing I'd wanted. "A _banya_, Napoleon, not a banyan. A Russian bath."

"No real desire to fly to Russia at this time, old man." I grunted as I stood. "I'll be lucky to make it to the elevator."

"I know a great place. It'll make a new man out of you."

"And the point to that would be?"

"Tonight, I'll make you feel old all over again."

Okay, so my mother did not raise a fool.

Russian baths are a little different from Turkish and the more popular Finnish steam baths. Russian baths tend to keep the humidity a little bit closer to sixty percent and the steam around 140 Fahrenheit, not as hot as the others. Then there is the ice bath and the _venik_.

The first time I went to one of these places and someone told me they were going to beat me with a birch branch, I very nearly caused a riot. Of course, I wasn't with Illya at the time either.

The process is pretty simple: you check in and shower off, hit the steam room for a few minutes, then you shower or take a refreshing dip into the ice pool. I prefer to just sit around and sip tea until I've cooled down again. Then you start the whole process again, only this time you stay longer in the steam room and the _venik_ comes into play. A _venik_ is a bunch of birch leaves and branches that are soaked in water until they become soft and supple. They are brushed over your skin – the application process can get quite involved, especially if a professional is being brought into play. Then it's out into the ice bath this time, for at least a minute if you can handle it. Then some tea and conversation before you start all over again.

You can repeat this as many time as you'd like, although five is pushing it to my way of thinking. I made three cycles before and remembering feeling like putty. Again, that was before Illya. The man had no tolerance for heat… or so I thought.

We were sitting through our fourth cycle and my partner was getting more and more agitated. What had been tiredness had degenerated into moodiness and almost a sense of propriety.

"Illya." I waved my hand in front of his face and he flicked a fast look in my direction. "Illya, what's going on?"

"I think it's time to leave, Napoleon."

"Are you through already?" That sort of surprised me. With his competitive nature, I figured Illya would go for broke and try to match the bath house's record.

"Yes, for I fear I will do damage to that attendant if he ogles you one more time. I don't like the way he keeps mentally undressing you."

I was wearing slippers and a towel; there wasn't much to undressing me at that point. Still, I didn't like the look in Illya's eyes. He was a dangerous man; we both were. When he got that look, it would end badly for someone.

"Tell you what, let's get dressed and I'll treat you to dinner."

And in my heart of hearts, it's what I had intended. It wasn't my fault that what started out as a blustery fall day had ended in a deluge equal of a Brazilian monsoon. It was coming down with a vengeance and that meant every available taxi had run home to hide in its garage. We braved a wild dash to the subway and then headed to Illya's place. It was closer than mine, not that it mattered. By the time we half stumbled, half fell through his front door, we were laughing and soaked to the skin.

We began to strip the minute the door was closed, ostensibly to get out of our wet clothes, but again, there was that look in Illya's eyes and I knew exactly what he needed.

He'd just gotten his shirt off and dropped it into a sodden pile when I brought him in for a kiss; the first one we'd shared in more time than I like to think. We made it a hard and fast rule; we never acted upon our needs when on duty. In exchange for us keeping our on-site partnership professional, Waverly turned a blind eye to what we did in our spare time. Even though an agent has very little time to call his own, we did the best we could.

Skin against skin, one of my favorite feelings in the world, and I luxuriated in feeling his against mine, hot to my cool. He was still slightly flushed from the bath and our race home and I never saw anything so – beautiful isn't right, although Illya can be. He can also be bewitching and seductive and gorgeous; as lovely as any of the women I used to bed. Yet he was also sensual, not afraid to ask, no, demand what he wanted, as opposed to those coy girls, afraid to speak their minds and then angry when I didn't pleased them exactly the way they wanted. No guess work with Illya.

I let my mouth wander from his, down his neck, marking my way as I went, just in case I got lost, don't you know? I licked and sucked first one rock hard pebble of a nipple, nuzzled my way through his chest hair to the other and gave it the same treatment.

I could hear his breathing picking up, a slightly tremble to it. I stood back up and whispered, "Let's go to bed." I caught his hand and pulled him toward his bedroom.

"Dinner?"

"There's only one thing I want to eat right now." I grinned at his groan and clucking of his tongue, knowing all full well it was part of the game we were playing. Then we hit the mattress and all playing was set aside as we began the very demanding task of pleasuring each other.

He was in me, rocking back and forth with a determination that couldn't be argued with. I kept trying to reach my poor ignored dick, but it was all I could do to hang on and not be knocked from the bed. I wasn't worried. He'd make it right; it was what partners did for each other, and he did. Right after he showed me another little trick that can be performed with a tie, a bit of dexterity, and imagination.

I drifted off, waking some time later to a cool bed and a grumbling stomach.

"Illya?" I asked softly, but there was no answer. I climbed out of the bed, shivering until I found his robe and put it on. The little bastard has ice water for blood, either that or vodka, I have no idea.

He was standing, wearing just his shorts and a tee shirt, looking out the window at the rain as it came down. It was sheeting sideways and I pitied anyone who had to be out in it.

I came up behind him, never making a sound, but he knew I was there. I slid my arms around him and felt, rather than heard, him sigh.

"What's wrong, Illya?" I rubbed my cheek against his head.

"I love you."

"And this troubles you?"

"No, I love you and no one else knows. I watch people walk down the street hand in hand and know that will never be us. I see people, moving openly as couples, and know that is a freedom we will never have. Never able to marry, to have any semblance of a family life. I want to be able to stand up and say, 'Napoleon Solo is mine.' I want to be able to proudly hold your hand, kiss you when I want to and not worry about what other people might think or do. And we'll never have that."

I let my grip tighten, feeling his muscles shift beneath his skin. "Is this because of that guy at the baths?""If we'd been a traditional couple, he would have known; it would have been obvious, but I can't… we aren't allowed…" His head tipped back against my shoulder and I smiled.

"You are sounding positively sentimental, old man. And here I was thinking you didn't have an ounce of it in your body." I gave him another hug as I had a flash of brilliance. "I'll be right back."

I shuddered at the loss of heat from his body as I walked quickly from the living to bed room and went to his closet. There were a dozen or so ties, but I pushed the nicer ones aside and went searching for his regular ones. They dangled from a regular hanger, limp, worn, tired, a bit like us. I picked one and headed back to him.

"Illya, give me your left hand." He did without hesitation, if not without curiosity. I took it, smiled at the strength I felt in it. Giving him one end of his tie, I instructed. "Hold that right there for me." A few brisk motions and I'd wrapped the tie around our hands and fastened it with a loose slip knot.

"What is this?" He stared at our hands and then back up at me.

"I can't marry you, Illya, not legally, so you'll have to take this as my commitment to you. I'm as bound to you as our hands are bound now. As long as you wear this tie, or one of its kin, you'll have an outwards sign of my love for you. I can't promise you forever, Illya, but I'll give you as long as I have." Hands still bound, we kissed and our mouths made love to each other before continuing onward. Come to think of it, I never did get dinner that night…

Forty years later, and he still wears those damn skinny black ties. Even after we stood before family (another story) and friends and swore our love to each other, sealing it with a kiss. Even after I put a platinum and diamond ring on his finger and he put one on mine. Even after we've watched other relationships dry up and blow away as ours continues strong. He wore a skinny black tie when we buried Waverly, he wore a skinny black tie at our son's and daughter's wedding (a really long story, that one), to our grandchildren's christening and he frequently wears one particular tie and nothing else. After all these years, I've grown quite fond of that silly old tie.

Speaking of such, you'll have to excuse me now. Illya's coming and he's wearing a tie… What? I may be old, but I'm not dead. At least not yet; check with me again in the morning.


End file.
